When Buck first enters the 118, he was all bright eyes and restless movement, a grin that came too quick and stayed a little too long, like he was making sure you knew he meant it (instead of the flirty and seductive Buck we all know).

When Buck talked, his hands moved just as much as his mouth — sketching shapes in the air, fingers tapping his leg in patterns only he seemed to know. He didn’t always wait for the right pause to jump in. If a thought sparked, it came out fast, sometimes in the middle of someone else’s sentence.

In the firehouse, that energy filled every corner. He learned the map of the station in a day, could list the serial numbers of the tools on the engine by the end of the week — not because he was told to, but because the patterns made sense and patterns felt safe.

Noise didn’t bother him much, but certain ones made him tense — the high-pitched whine of the SCBA alarm, the squeal of a dry marker on the whiteboard. He’d rub the side of his thumb over the seam of his jeans when it got bad, grounding himself until it passed.

He was the kind of person who would laser-focus on a problem until it was solved, forgetting to eat, forgetting to answer texts. But ask him about the history of LAFD ladder trucks, or the aerodynamics of a hose stream, and he’d light up like you’d just handed him the best rescue call of his life.

Some people called him intense. Some called him exhausting. ——— The hose was already coiled, but Buck kept running his hand along it, eyes fixed on the weave of the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The rest of the bay buzzed with chatter, radios, clanging tools.

Hen frowned, watching him from across the rig. He wasn’t listening to Chim’s story. Wasn’t laughing like he usually did. His shoulders were hunched in that “head somewhere else” way she’d seen after bad calls — except this one hadn’t been bad.

She walked over, slow enough not to startle him. “Everything okay?” she asked, light but not casual.

Buck’s head came up, but his gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “Yeah, just—” He gestured vaguely at the hose, then went back to smoothing it.

Hen studied him for another beat, then jerked her chin toward the squad. “C’mon. Help me with the med kit before Bobby sees I didn’t do inventory.”

It wasn’t about the kit. It was about pulling him away from the flashing lights and the noise without making a thing of it.

Buck followed her, quiet. By the time they’d gone through the supplies, he was talking again — not the rapid-fire energy she was used to, but enough that his shoulders had eased.

Hen didn’t ask questions. She just gave him a small smile and said, “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Go get some before Chim drinks it all.” Why is Buck acting weird always? Ever since Buck came to the 118, he was already acting like this…